A Lonely Woman and Her Vodka

Title speaks for itself.

I see before me a wretched trap.

Who's soul loafs until it's blight, like a quarry mined and scarified.

It feeds itself from venom sacks, as hungry dogs might thirst for cunnilingus.

It wrenches forth, swings at air pretending someone's actually there.

Talon nails effect no blow, but poisons self like bee stings.

The creature wakes but soul still sleeps.

As venom quakes through her blood,

Conscience silence, soul unkempt wrecks itself on Devil shoals.

Vessel broken but complete it feeds again until she sleeps.